
i 



THE 


B Y 












HUMPBACK, 


LI O N 


E 


L 


J O S A 


PHARE 


THE 














CRIPPLE 










SAN FRANCISCO 


AND THE 








A. M. 


R O 1 


3 E R T S O N 


ONE-EYED MAN 












PUBLISHER 



5 1 U ^ t> 



VOL. 1. NO. 2 

THE FLAME SERIES 

SENT POSTPAID, . . 25 CENTS A COPY 

SUBSCRIPTION FOR 6 NUMBERS, $1 

ADDRESS ALL COMMUNICATIONS TO 

LIONEL JOSAPHARE 
126 POST STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. 



CONTENTS FOR NO* 2, 

BY Lionel Josaphare 

The Cynic at the Feast page 5 

Renunciation 8 

A Sweetheart of Other Days 13 
THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE 

AND THE ONE-EYED MAN IS 

The Sovereign in the Street 23 

Sonnets of an Angel 29 

The Workingman's God 34 




COPYRIGHTED, 1803 
BY A. M. ROBERTSON 



THE 

HUMPBACK, 
THE 
CRIPPLE 

Poems 

AND THE on the state 

ONE-EYED MAN. of Ubor. 

BY / 

LIONEL JOSAPHARE. 



PUBLISHED BY 

A. M. ROBERTSON 

SAN FRANCISCO 



» t> O 5 O C O ^ 



THE CHARLES L. GASKILL PRESS 






• '. • » I 



... 

• • • . • 



PREFACE AND ANNOUNCEMENT 

The work of Mr. Christian Binkley, an- 
nounced in the first number of the Flame 
Series, does not appear herein. Mr. Binkley 
has received some of the highest praise ac- 
corded a California poet, and we hope to pub- 
lish some of his literature anon. 

From a critical view, the poems in this vol- 
ume may seem an attempt to exalt, rather than 
a manner of receiving exaltation from, the 
subject matters thereof. It may be declared 
that only beautiful objects are the re- 
sources of poetry. I do not deny that poetry is 
the expression of the beautiful, but deny that 
it is always such. Objects of less heavenliness 
have also their places in art. Poetry can con- 
template physical misery and lose none of its 
own elemental grandeur, if it is true and in- 
trinsically divine. 

It may be said that benevolence is one 
thing and beauty another. Yet benevolence 
is the beauty of the soul. There are some to 
whom an oil-painting of Christ in a gorgeous 
throne room, curing a Syrian prince of a 
languid feeling, would contain more essential 
beauty than would a representation of Him 
at the Mount of Olives, protecting the woman 
who had sinned. The misconception would 
arise from the fact that the paraphernalia of 
regal magnificence in itself would be so ad- 



vantageous that an artist of ordinary ability 
could not fail making a portrayal of beauty 
of it. But the episode at the Mount of Olives, 
with its native background, requires, for its 
presentation, a limner of the soul. Anyone 
can fancy riches; but soul must be shown to 
us. Moreover, the baser sentiments of envy 
and greed are quickly aroused to the admira- 
tion of sumptuous beauty, even though poorly 
painted, while poverty is so repugnant to 
our thoughts that few can keep their pride 
in abeyance until their artistic discernment 
has had the time to examine the art quietly. 
Or, in respect of the same subject of sheer 
beauty demanded by some poets, one might 
ask, Which are the most beautiful, the child- 
ren of the poor or of the wealthy. Romance 
would answer that the juvenile dauphins, 
princes and czarowitzes of our own Four 
Hundred, with their bright hair, large eyes 
and cracker-fed complexions, have the true 
and best beauty. But I give judgment against 
them. Their faces are the product of their 
environment. In them already appear the 
selfishness, the petulance, the obstinacy, the 
cruelty and all the favors of wealth. You may 
call this beautiful. It is. It is. But it is 
earth compared with the divinity of sadness 
in the countenance of a child of careless 
beauty. When poverty is beautiful, it is 
supreme. 

L.J. 



THE CYNIC AT THE FEAST 

The parlors glowed. Their frescoed heavens 

fed 
On music's cry and flowers' breath that spread 
Round scenic women, who through all did 

shine 
That all the triumph seemed of woman shed; 
Which Junos vouched what happiness 

was mine; 
Spoke from their hearts, which languidly they 

fanned ; 
And pressed good wishes on my happy hand. 

Well-manned, well-damed was Pleasure's easy 
crew. 

To them the sphinx of wine loquacious grew. 
Life's meaning in the amorous goblet 
showed, 

Like Jove's with Cupid's face reflecting 
through. 
While from the high-held glass base pas- 
sion flowed 

As midnight in the mirrors twice did shine 

On them who drank of the carnivorous wine. 



The secret in the bottle was revealed 
To all, and none the mystery concealed; 

Till, from the mouth of each lascivious 
varlet, 
To space the tongues and lips of wine ap- 
pealed. 
Folly mocked folly ; crimson blushed at 
scarlet ; 
Youth preached its broad experience ; and Age 
Its longer wisdom led upon the stage. 

Sweet and lascivious, drunken and divine, 
Some new mythology these gods design, 

Whose vice their heirs will emulate in art 
When future pagans light the bloody shrine. 

With such affections taken to her heart, 
Her smooth complexion jeweled o'er with 

smiles, 
The flashing wife her spirit's life beguiles. 



The men! How airily their deeds encroach! 

On what a precious-hedged preserve they 
poach ! 
To what rare task is all their wit ad- 
dressed? 

Ah ! Some with gay flirtation would approach 
A mother nursing her wee babe at breast. 

Who would not groan? A thornless rose of 
joy 

Ne'er made a cynic of the gardener's boy. 

If it be sin to throw a loaf away, 
What greater crime to feed them who can pay! 
Why give the feast to them who do not 
need, 
When thousands for the w r ant of it decay? 

Why take from modesty and give to 
greed ? 
Why to rich bellies boast what foods inflate? 
Good men are starving; let the full ones wait. 



RENUNCIATION 

Defrayed in hope and in my soul's respect, 
And heart-mad, I forsook the world's defect; 
Absconded from this pushing world's de- 
sires, 
And lit the ghost within me to reflect ; 

Whereby to swage the burn of wicked 
fires, 
Which flare so wide along our mortal ways 
That even virtue feels the general blaze. 

I studied thus : The world has done me wrong 
By making virtue weak and evil strong. 

With ancient foulness it besets my youth ; 
With tainted breath it sings the sweetest song. 

Moss grows upon the shady side of truth, 
And the same slanderous vapors trickle down 
Walls of ill fame or homes of sweet renown. 



8 



What opportunity has virtue here? 
Its duty, toil; its recompense, a tear; 

Its innocence the object of attack, 
A scene where strategy can reappear. 

What splendors can illumine wicked 
black? 
Rather will darkness, hardly put to rout, 
Besiege the lamp until its oils give out. 

If still in pleasure I could live alone, 

The woes of others were not worth a groan. 

But who will dare to lock his doors to duty 
And revel in perfection all his own? 

And yet the sotted crowd will smirch his 
beauty, 
His deeds refute and cumber him with hate, 
Predict his fall and wide the tale relate. 



Lo, night-browed Melancholy, fierce Despair, 
Far-limping ills, Repentance and dull Care, 

And Hope with sagging wounds, and 
Grief serene, 
And Poverty with dust upon its hair, 

Make dingy figures in a wicked scene. 
But Wealth, corrupt physician of their pain, 
Neglects relief, howe'er the lips complain. 

My brow is heavy at the bleeding sight; 
But these, my friends, now scorning to requite 

The long arraignment of truth-telling day, 
With pleasure and with perfume fill the night. 

Sick with my conscience, while my friends 
are gay, 
I wonder if there will be God's forgiving 
For those who now commit the sin of living. 



10 



Ashamed of all, I leave their ways unkind, 
To live in the condemned cells of my mind. 

There in what glory may I fall asleep, 
Or else what massy locks and queer keys find ! 

What passages and subterfuges deep, 
What sliding panels, clap-traps in the floors, 
What stairways, private streets and dreamy 
doors ! 

In what suspense of tumult shall I dwell, 
Or storms that rock the columns of mid-hell? 

Ghosts I shall meet, and question them 
who wrote 
Of sorrow, in what griefs their own they fell. 

And I may find, within those halls remote, 
What windows that on secret landscapes look, 
Or what dark midnights for a lamp and book? 



ii 



Perhaps, along those haunted prison-stones, 
Some human visitor may clank his bones ; 

At whose intruding footstep, I my head 
Shall raise, inviting him to share my groans, 

And make the villain feed as I have fed, 
Although he make a wry face at my fare, 
The bread of wisdom, waters of despair. 



12 



A SWEETHEART OF OTHER DAYS 

The shantied street was crooked where I 

walked 
With insignificance at eve. The houses, 
Corrupt, or damaged of proportion, seemed 
Built of some weird solidity of shadow, 
Or haply bronze, but very druxy bronze, 
Which, pretty for a picture of a story, 
Looked quite unreal or the fanciful 
And stark romance of realism, as if 
Some pessimistic architect planned them 
As purgatorial homes for sinners auld 
Awaiting the divinity of death. 
Yet here the heart of man feels the same beat 
Of Nature's incorruptible jurisprudence 
As elsewhere feels it; and Fate works here too. 
Sweetheart of other days, we meet again. 
I wist I had farewelled our love away; 
I did not think to act this part again ; — 
That I should stalk before an audience 
Of shadowy sick-featured, sallow Fates 
And let a gallery of evil spirits 
Clap me again upon a pelted stage! 
Is Hell the repetition of a grief 
That has already saturated years 
With undiminished sighs? I grieve again. 



13 



And yet, like one who opes a truthful book, 
To find again some poetry forgot, 
I read again the beauty of your face 
And feel the rushing sympathy of yore, 
That still contents. A moment's peace be with 

me! 
The noon and Sabbath of my soul is now. 



H 



THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE AND 
THE ONE-EYED MAN 

One eve, as at my window-panes I stood, 
Gray films of memory patched the dull gray 

view, 
Where thoughts, blithe-winged, meandered as 

they would, 
Like odd-eyed fairies that from childhood flew. 
When mind's deep glass on childhood's ground 

reflects, 
Where is the childish tenant of that place? 
Dead in his older self, now recollects 
The inscrutiahle sorrow on that infant's face. 
Yond sets the sun, that has not lost a day 
In tacking through the sky his blazing hull. 
But where's the light that sunned that child at 

play? 
E'en memory's picture-light of it is dull. 

Thus oft, while legendary youth adjusting 
To present movings in the glare of wealth, 
I gaze past little house-tops poor and rusting, 
Where honor crawls and freedom breathes by 

stealth. 
To those brown wooden homes my thoughts 

'gan fall, 
My love and pity passed ; and fancy strayed 
Through dark defiles of streets, which ended 

small, 
And there the ragged-running rabble played. 
Out of that struggling multifarious throng, 
A movement, as of setting forth, began ; 
From which emerged a captain huge and 

strong, 
What time I saw he was a humpbacked man. 

15 



I next beheld him in my room. His tread 
Was like an army's, though he came alone. 
With woes to stoppage fraught, he gazed 

ahead 
And, victim of a thousand crimes, did groan. 
Lofty, though wronged and lulled from beau- 
ty's line, 
Despoilt with task and years, on him, withal, 
Innumerable beauties did still twine, 
Like roses livening a ruined wall. 
Rigid with strength, solidified with grief, 
He felt no amber sun-beams make him bright, 
But saw, with the magic eyesight of belief, 
The hand of wrong betwixt him and the light. 

His frown was apt with anger to chastise, 

Like God's, to awe the ungodly to obey ; 

And yet the kindlier manner of his eyes 

Was like a twilight turning bluebells gray. 

His smile was like a hope of sweeter woe, — 

A vision rising from a lake of tears; 

For tears from hopes and pent-up visions flow, 

And his had flowed in spirit through the years. 

Of sentences to tie into a tale, 

He lacked supply, nor gained them from the 

gloom, 
And, when of his few words he made avail, 
His voice was like the midnight in a tomb. 



16 



He showed me wrongs and schedules of com- 
plaint, 

In wide expectance of my soon surprise; 

And at such misery as he could paint, 

Asked me to imitate his bardlike sighs. 

But I, in walls with gladder pictures brimming, 

Did look on his with courtesy at most. 

Ill-framed with splendors, frightless was his 
limning — 

The noontime telling of a midnight ghost. 

Then he, with toppling-heavy shoulders 
bowed, 

Withdrew unsoothed and midst his people 
went, 

Obscurely as the shadow of a cloud 

Through a dark forest. Then my view was 
bent. 

Then came a rogue who entered with a thud — 
A crippled, crack-legged, crimson-browed 

alarm, 
A night-hag's dwarf, inbred with Satan's blood 
And stamped by Hell's astrology for harm. 
Softly ! He is all memory now. But I 
Remember what a tragic rage he had 
And wrinkly folds of shadow that did ply 
His face and seem, each one, a scowl to add. 
Hobbler upon mismated legs he came, 
Stopping in fault, or with short-coming hurry, 
Limped hither thither like a shifting flame 
And cursed and perjured with exceeding 

worry. 



17 



From a short reverie and scowl aside, 
This flame-and-smoke hucd villain then re- 
bounded; 
"Remorse on you! Fall down and weep," he 

cried, 
And, being raged, a throaty tale expounded. 
"Boilers will burst in wrath and vent their 

ills; 
New patriots your walls from walls will pluck, 
Unlock the axles of the steaming mills 
And hurl the hot vibrating wheels amuck. 
I see your windows bursted spouting flame 
And you in cinders blacker than ours now — " 
Madman ! I stopped him there and, with ex- 
claim, 
Seated my fist compactly on his brow. 



Binding his forehead with his arms he quailed 
Out of my eyes, nor back his dudgeon darting, 
Avaunted and himself with tears regaled 
And sobs to keep him company departing. 
And then I saw that I was not alone : 
The third who now against me did contrive 
Was clad in mouldy black, not aye his own, 
And, having but one eye, looked half alive. 
The eye survivor seemed in fright to stare 
Still at the violence that had quashed the 

other ; 
Or else accounted all the world unfair 
To leer upon the cave left by its brother. 



18 



Shiftless, erelong he into words did stray; 
Inhaled the simple twilight for his lung, 
Which worked (in their behalf who were 

away) 
The leaky loud poetics of his tongue. 
His plural and most voluble debating 
Paused often and amazed to pick its choice 
Of words and repetitions lost and waiting 
In the invisible mazes of his voice. 
He said that we are foemen to defeat them 
Whose lives we press and purchase hour to 

hour; 
And swore that w r e are cannibals and eat them 
Whose strength is in the dainties we devour. 

"Tripe-fed philosopher and gloomy dunce!" 
To him I quick in rising soul replied, 
"You are the devils cast from Heaven once, 
Now from the light of heavenly wealth denied. 
A fool tongue curling, 'justice' is your word: 
Not you, not I, but God knows what that is, 
And how much debt the crime of life incurred, 
And how each yearning knave may reason his. 
To vanquish Heaven is a feat for Hell, 
That Pleasure, smiling, frighten at Hell's 

frown ; 
Your duty is to envy and rebel; 
Mine is to battle your rebellion down. 



19 



'"Therefore, should I be gracious to your will, 
Letting your fortunes bask where mine have 

flourished, 
And with my art your artless hopes fulfill, 
Your wants would grow in purpose, being 

nourished ; 
Yet would, as grew their project, lose in 

power, 
For, being wronged, the courage gains in 

force ; 
But favors, man, would steal your anger's 

flower, 
Leaving you poor in motive and resource. 
Then should I grant the simple things you 

ask, 
I would be shrewdly stealing all you own: 
The conquest of its own is honor's task; 
Without which task, how would its work be 

known ?" 

Then he, naught saying or attempting, turned, 
Slinking off like a lean cat in the rain. 
But scarce outside his transit I discerned, 
Another came to give my fancies pain. 
O mortal horror! Not until Hell's doom, 
When the last shivering consumptive imp 
Will slam the black and icy gates of gloom 
And fall convulsed with many a woeful crimp 
Will there again such mangled monster crawl 
Out of the glimmering pits (as if surviving 
Satan and all his tortures) as did fall 
Into my sight — a shape that howled arriving. 



20 



Of the deformities of them before 

He was the ghastly, physical conjunction; 

Shaped by his wounds and showing many 

more 
To try my fear or delicate compunction, 
Threefoldly damaged, wrenched from noble 

height, 
With blood-stains in his beard and hair that 

ran 
Into mad masses, he was all, outright, 
Humpbacked and crippled and a one-eyed 

man. 
Like the first huge up-shouldered one he 

loomed, 
And like the angry cripple dragged a limb, 
And like the one-eyed man's his one eye 

bloomed, 
And as a gory giant he was grim. 

He spoke : "I am" that one you firstly scanned. 
I am the man of many woes and wrongs. 
I know the backs that suffer and withstand. 
I know the hearts to which your blood be- 
longs. 
No longer I am anvil to your pride : 
I walk, though lamed by Jealousy and Fear; 
For when my comrades took me for their 

guide, 
The jealous rivals of my wrath stabbed here. 
Then I the wisdom of our wants became, 
And he who was half-sighted was put by, 
Shrieking as he struck here with hideous aim, 
*Let our great leader be one-eyed, as 1/ 

21 



"Thus I am fit memorial of the strife; 
My body is become a bloody flag. 
Adorned with the atrocities of life, 
I am the fury of the hut and rag. 
Humpbacked I am from shouldering golden 

wrongs ; 
Lame — all my deeds by jealousy are crippled ; 
One-eyed in the half-wisdom of my throngs, 
But in resolve all their terrifies tripled. 
I threaten you, Revenge has yet in keep 
Memory of inextinguishable stuff, 
And retribution can through armies leap 
Till overcrowded Hell must cry 'Enough!' 

"Your crimes, though weak, have bent me into 

strength, 
That I may clasp your struggles in my hand. 
Though bowed, I crush ; though lame, limp to 

great length ; 
One-eyed, — rny deeds I need not understand. 
Tremble and move as timber struck by steel. 
Howl with repentance through your vacant 

fame. 
Depart on limbs that soon may learn to kneel ; 
And, fallen in escaping, bleed with shame!" 
He said no more; but his dark arm rose high. 
And he is here. His shoulders heave with 

woe. 
And he is thinking and he has one eye; 
Monster, with wrongs and wrath, he will not 

go. 



22 



THH SOVEREIGN IN THE STREET 

From a castle of thoughts that my conscience 
was building 
I studied a man who was cutting a street, 
While the round-rolling sun was demeaning 
and gilding 
Him thinking and ripping the ditch at his 
feet. 

Of this native of grief, as he shoveled the fur- 
row, 
I write, be the subject a poem or not; 
For as deep did he burrow, my love traveled 
thorough 
And writes, be the truth of it rubies or 
rot. 

Oh, 'tis weird that the truth, like a corpse on 
the floor, 
Should bleed on our carpets and stare at 
the light; 
And that Art should ignore what she taught 
us before, 
And tear up the lessons we prattled last 
night. 



23 



Not with your eyes, my poet, rose-haunted 
and grave — 
Thou poet with wondering violet eyes — 
Did I look on the slave digging low in the 
cave, 
Corroded with dust, sweat, itch, sun- 
beams and flies. 

O dim-blushing poet with Grecian-strung lyre, 
Declare not my earth-man in melody 
wrong, 
Nor that Beauty's attire and effulgence in- 
spire : 
'Tis the voice of the singer makes noble 
the song. 

Like a grave-digger digging a terrible grave — 

Like a sun spirit heaving the hot day with 

coal, 

His dredger he drave and he hove to the pave 

The clods that he tore from the earth and 

flung whole. 

The freight of his spade, coming dun from the 
bung 
Of the foul-smelling sand, seemed the 
filth of his fate. 
And fast while he flung the material dung 
Of the earth he built sidelong the mound 
of his hate. 



24 



The wealth-wasting givers of feasts grew in 
riches ; 
Wide, wide grew the hands at the hilt of 
the task; 
And there came a dream which is a curse on 
all ditches 
And pain guised the laborer's face like a 
mask. 

The point of the shovel grew inward and 
blunt 
And the love in the eye of the trencher 
grew dim ; 
As he dug with a grunt, became shorter in 
front, 
And his fingers grew crooked, knock- 
knuckled and grim. 

Still at underground honor his scepter he 
points, 
With negligence digging a tragical story; 
While some dunce who anoints with fat 
wealth his vile joints, 
Stands proud on the swift-rolling chariots 
of glory. 

O for a lithe shovel of truculent aim 

To gouge at the greed that keeps need in 
the sands! 
For the spade of good fame is of wood and 
steel frame, 
But to masters of men it is wood, steel 
and hands. 

25 



Then dig, ye bones, dig; ye have many more 
years ; 
Your sorrows will shine to the eyelids of 
God; 
And Destiny hears your soft-falling tears: 
O'er the task of the spade let your man's 
noddle nod. 

What matters it, marrow and gristle and brain 
Or tendon and belly and tooth are intent? 

Or that eyeball and vein in a perishing strain 
To the rim of the earth-riving shovel are 
bent? 

Empowered of shoulder and elbow and groin, 
In struggle terrific he wearies at length, 

While innard and loin to the hot shovel join, 
Converting his pride to the need of new 
strength. 

What long-contained smiles have been stop- 
ped at those lips? 
What thoughts dead and useless are ooz- 
ing in sweat? 
What majesty drips on those foul-flanneled 
hips ? 
How laboring low makes nobility wet! 



26 



What tears that his eyelids a passage denied 
Took a brinier course through the fast- 
weeping pores? 
What thoughts were untied — what escapings 
of pride 
When first he dug sands for their silver- 
less ores? 

I could shout to the sun (whose hot splendors 
are falling 
And burning this handler of shovels) be- 
hold! 
What devils are calling and gambling and 
brawling 
For them who with fingers of gold count 
their gold. 

But it boots not relating what devils, alack, 
With smutty red limbs and blue bellies 
are waiting 
To harrow a pack of scared souls on the rack; 
That's a matter of prayers and religious 
debating. 

But the pendulum swaying through seasons 
to bring 
The scenic effusion of May, we remem- 
ber — 
From flowery Spring will as quietly swing 
Back, back in its path to the wilds of No- 
vember. 



27 



So the beam in Time's balance will pass in its 
frame 
And the places of wealth become blighted 
and cold; 
For its gold and its fame from weary blood 
came, 
And Time will refund it with blood from 
the gold. 



28 



SONNETS OF AN ANGEL 

God's ancient deeds within my thoughts 
abide ; 
I can remember Eden palm and glen. 
Far rolled the word when chaos did subside, 
And there was sunlight when I looked 

again. 
Jehovah smiled: the garden livened then; 
His words to beastly shapes transformed ran 
wide 
Or blossomed in the paths of future men 
Or spoke to heaven, which with stars re- 
plied. 
Fair shone the days; and, plentily bedewed, 
The boughs of Eden kept primeval 
Spring. 
At Adam's flank Eve walked those weathers 
nude, 
In the respect of every living thing. 
Ate she for man the apple of disgrace, 
And faltered, pregnant with the human race. 



29 



There was a stillness in the dark blue night, 

Whose musk from viewless jars' abroad 

was blown, 

Making that balmy which the moon made 

bright, 

Deep in the wells of space where Eden 

shone. 
Night's heaven suddenly was wider 
grown, 
Showing a field of limpid sapphire light, 

Which, like the rays from Heaven's glow- 
ing throne, 
Burned the surrounding orbs from earthly 

sight. 
God walked among the stars in tranquil 
wrath ; 
The distances of heaven rolled away; 
Cerulean leagues receded from his path, 

Where, in the night, his thoughts made 
purple day. 
Then spoke the Lord to one of men: "Work 

thou 
Until thy master's deeds weigh on thy brow." 



30 



Man worked. The futures thawed before his 
face. 
He searched the seas and ploughed the 
plains between; 
Prayed to his God, kneeled under Heaven's 
grace, 
And hung his rotting tombs with ever- 
green. 
The toiler treaded gloomily the scene, 
Remembering the God of years and space 

(Though time and horizons did intervene) 
Through the remembering souls of all his race. 
Sometimes, brow-sick where steadfast shades 
accrue, 
He thought he witnessed God's traditional 
form, 
Brushing the mist of years from memory's 
view, 
Voicing melodious thunders through the 
storm. 
Then from his breast the toiler's voice came 

free : 
"Father, behold what has been wrought with 
me!" 



3i 



Thou too, proud Hell, behold this world of 
men! 
O that I could, to set my censure high, 
In some volcano's molten dip my pen 

And write their shame athwart the plain 

blue sky. 
Ye lilies of your sex, with pathos dry, 
Your cheeks will dim beneath Time's dismal 
ken, 
Your mild sweets curdle 'neath Time's 
bitter eye, 
But kindly acts will make you live again. 
Ye lovers of the lily-aspect maids, 

Ye mouldering hearts of earth's original 
dust, 
For that ye hate the dwellers in the shades, — 
Look up and the breath of divine disgust 
Be on you all until your given breads 
Regain His love to your unloving heads. 



32 



When to the witness of your varied crimes, 
There comes the anguish of despairing 
thought, 
To make the poet throw away his rhymes, 

The drinker dash the glass with nectars 

fraught, — 
When in wrath's blazes patience burns to 
naught, 
Seeing your contracts broken many times, 

The soul beweeps the stuff of which 'tis 
wrought, 
And anger high in honor's tower climbs. 
Because ye sell the roses of the earth 

For coins to them who watched the bush 
bloom wild; 
And that ye buy more than your needs are 
worth, 
And sell the useless to the hungry child; 
Boldly abuse the workers where they plod, 
And in your wealth pray to the workman's 
God. 



LofC. 



33 



THE WORKINGMAN'S GOD 

Though wit and logic disbelieve 

And gospels bend 

While creeds contend, 
There breathes above the nurtured sod 

A greater God 
Than faith and folly now perceives 

Though pagan dance and Christian sing- 
Though folk and priest 
And skeptic feast 

And angels of the choir give praise 
On holy days, 

A planted seed will conjure Spring. 

Though Bible be the godly word, 

Or be it not, 

When 'tis forgot, 
A greater God than Moses knew 

Will speak to you 
And tell you where His prophets erred. 



34 



Ye chanters of the sweetened prayer, 

Ye hearts that reign, 

Do not disdain 
The guider of the wheel and rod ; 

The workman's God 
Answers the kneelinsr millionaire. 



£5 



Think, as with myrrh you warm the prayer 

And blow avast 

The golden blast, 
The cost of odor and of gold 

Will be enscrolled 
Against the charity ye bear. 

While the cathedral aisles are warm, 

And every night 

The heavens fright 
The tenants of Jehovah's rain, 

Your prayers attain 
The God of them within the storm. 



35 



The Lord beholds you on your knees; 

He takes your praise 

And sees your ways 
And knows the music of the song 

To which belong 
The singers' virtue, which he sees. 

The churchless and unsapphired God, 
Though pleased with hymns 
And creedish whims, 

Bends out of Heaven's richest air 
To hear the prayer 

The ploughboy whispers to the sod. 

As, thick with lust or pale with hate, 

Ye tempt the skies 

With earthly prize 
And bring to God some stolen gold, 

And some withhold, 
The workman prays to One as great. 

As loud ye beat at Heaven's wall, 

For place when Death 

Will have your breath, 
Believe that somewhere on the slopes, 

The God of hopes 
Will build sweet poverty a hall. 



36 



ROBERTSON'S PVBLICATIONS 



Binkley, Christian iC. 

"Songs and Sonnets for a House of Days" $ 1.25 net 

Delmas, D. M. 

4 'Speeches and Addresses" . . 2.50 net 

Fletcher, Robert Howe 

"Observations on Chinatown." With Illus- 
trations by Krnest Peixotto 3.50 net 

Gerberding, Elizabeth 

"The Golden Chimney." The story of a boy's *- J 

mine . . . . 1.00 net 

Hibbard, Grace 

"California Violets." A Book of Verse . 1.00 net 

"Wild Roses of California." A book of verse 1.00 net 

Hyde Mabel 

"Jingles from Japan. With pictures by Helen 

Hyde . . . . .75 net 

Josaphare, Lionel 

"The Iyion at the Well." A remarkable poem .50 net 

"Turquoise and Iron" «- . . 1.20 net 

feeler, Charles 

"A Season's Sowing." Quatrains and couplets. 

Decorated by Louise Keeler . 1.25 net 

Hand illuminated edition . . 10.00 net 
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Louise Keeler . . . 1.25 net 

"Songs of the Sea." . . 1.00 net 

Lewis, JZrthur 

"The Rag Tags." An illustrated juvenile . 1.25 net 



ROBERTSON'S PUBLICATIONS 

(CQNTINVED) 



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<4 For the Blue and Gold." A story of life at U. C. $ 1.50 net 

Markham, Edwin 

"The Man with the Hoe." Original edition, in 

paper . . . . . 1.00 net 

O'Connell, Daniel 

"Songs from Bohemia" . . . 1.50 net 

Robertson, Louis Jl. 

"The Dead Calypso," and other verse . . 1.50 net 

"Beyond the Requiems" . . . 1.00 net 

"Cloistral Strains" . ... .75 net 

Robertson, Peter 

"The Seedy Gentleman." Designs by Gordon Ross 1.50 net 

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* "Roadside Flowers." A book of verse . . 1. 00 net 

Stoddard, Charles Warren 

"In the Footprints of the Padres." Reminiscences 

of early days in California . .1.50 net 

Students of the State University 

"Under the Berkeley Oaks." Stories of college 

life by the students of U. C. . . 1.00 net 

Ventura, L. D. 

"Cceur de Noel." With French exercises. Illus- 
trated . .' . . .50 net 



ROBERTSONS PUBLICATIONS 



(CONTINUED) 



TURQUOISE J*ND IRON 
By Lionel J osap hare 

Despite that Lionel Josaphare's work has been sub- 
jec ted to the fierce light of adverse criticism, it would 
be manifestly unjust and, worse still, extremely „stupid> 
to deny him the possession of talent. Talent he un- 
doubtedly has, and there are gleams of a great genius 
in much of his writing. — john hamii/Ton giuiour in 
S. F. Evening Post. 

With * 'Turquoise and Iron, ,, which contains pre- 
sumably most of the author's fugitive pieces, we are able 
toj go. a ; step further in identifying the new versifier. 
The originality is confirmed; the strength is undeni- 
able; there is nothing that we can call rant. — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 



Quoting the Sonnet to the Ink-well — The follow- 
ing sonnet of more than usual originality from Iaonel 
Josaph are's powerful (that is the word) book of poems. 
— y The Book Lover 



^f\f 



J 



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238 Post Street 



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